Scops Owl

At night I lie without you
under a pelt of darkness
heavy with cypress
ragged with goat-cries.

Under the white moon’s Roman coin
dogs are barking from distant farms
with little rips of sound
that stone walls catch, throw back.

All this he draws like silk
through a gold ring
into a single woodwind note:
a true and level fluting

tongued and sweet
I picture travelling
through night’s horizons
north, to where you sleep.


La Font, Pollença. July 2000

from Punk with Dulcimer (Peterloo Poets, 2006), © Anna Crowe 2006, used by permission of the author

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